Unexpected
by MrsCumberbatch
Summary: Finding himself pregnant isn't the real problem. The problem is that neither seems to want it. And neither wants to do something about it. Finding himself at a crossroads, Sherlock has to take a decision alone. #Mpreg
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hello there! This is an extended version of my fic "The Letter". You don't need to read that one to understand this one.**

 **Don't forget to tell me your thoughts!**

* * *

Everything was white and pristine. The entire place smelled of disinfectant. There were people running to and fro. There were plenty of doctors, nurses, couples, families. It was the maternity ward, of course there would be people. And no matter how much he disliked people, he knew this was the place where he and his child needed to be.

As soon as he arrived and announced himself and his condition, he was rapidly taken a room and asked to take off his clothes and put on a special gown. The nurse smiled at him tenderly as she asked him if he needed help with his clothes. She soon noticed he was alone and that he had not brought a baby bag. He was just a man wearing his usual pyjamas, his slippers, a long dark coat, and about to give birth.

"Is there anyone you'll want me to call?"

He considered it for a moment. He had signed legal documents promising to call the adoptive parents the moment he knew he was about to give birth. He promised them. He knew he had to call them and let them know the child he was having, and giving to them, was coming to the world. He had said it himself countless times. As soon as it was taken out of him, it was theirs.

But there was one person he knew had to be there. With him. And with their child.

"Doctor Watson."

The smiling nurse left with the number and promised to make the call. She asked him to please lie down and call her if he needed anything. After a quick ultrasound, Sherlock learnt the baby was definitely coming now, but still, he had to wait. The doctors said they needed the baby to move and then they were performing a c-section.

Everything should be all right, the doctors said.

So Sherlock lay down on the bed and let his hands caress his own belly. He knew only a layer of skin and muscles were keeping him from his baby. From that child he was giving away because he thought he couldn't do it alone. But not any more. Now he was not alone.

That same afternoon John said he wanted their baby.

* * *

 _Oh, really?_ "Why?"

"Because it's my child."

"It has always been yours. Why you want it now?"

"Sherlock -"

"You said you didn't want children."

John's eyes were red. "I'm sorry." He sniffed and looked away, as if using that tactic Sherlock would not see he had been and still was crying.

 _Damn you._ "I'm giving it up for adoption."

"You can't." His soldier voice was back. He even stood with his back straight. While Sherlock remained on his chair, John stood up and decided to face this now. "I'm the father too. I know my rights."

The detective chuckled. " _Please._ "

"Look, if we can't discuss this like civilised people I'm getting a lawyer."

Sherlock laid a bit back and curled his lips upwards. He knew how much John hated it, that sarcastic smile. With some effort, the detective managed to stand up and face the father of his baby. The man who, something like twenty-eight weeks ago, said he didn't want their baby. That he didn't want to have children. Who agreed when he said he was getting an abortion.

"Twenty-eight weeks ago you agreed I should get an abortion."

John swallowed and looked into the detective's eyes. "I swear to you I'll take things as far as -" Suddenly, his soldier voice failed him. He was now stammering. "If I have to take you to court, I will."

"It is my body you're speaking of, and therefore my choice."

"This is not about you getting an abortion. This is about keeping our child." John finally admitted. "If you're giving it up for adoption because you don't want it just... just give it to me, I'll raise it. I'll go... far away. You won't have to see it. Just please, don't give it away. I made a mistake, all right? I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock had never been able to understand people. The only way for him was through deductions and observation. He could never understand why people cried when watching a film, or when some tragedy took place. He could not even understand himself the moment he cried when he first listened to his baby's heart beats.

But there was the man he loved in front of him. There was the father of his baby, begging him. There was John, his baby, and himself.

He grimaced with pain and his knees failed him. John son took hold of him and asked him what was wrong, if the baby was coming, what should he do, if he needed anything. Sherlock merely said he needed to lie down as soon as possible.

"I'll get my stethoscope -"

"It's just kicking."

"You sure? How far along you are?"

"Thirty weeks," Sherlock lied.

John looked worried. "I'll call an ambulance."

"No, you are not!" Sherlock almost screamed.

Before John could argue about babies coming before time, Sherlock unexpectedly took his hand and placed it on his baby bump. At first, the doctor didn't feel anything. But then, as soon as Sherlock's eyes were on his, he felt their baby kicking.

"He's kicking."

"It's a boy?" John almost whispered. He smiled widely and soon Sherlock understood.

"Obviously."

John smiled some more. "May I?"

Sherlock nodded and then John placed both hands on his belly. He touched him like a doctor would, but his hands stayed on him for long minutes. The detective knew this was not John the doctor, making himself sure the baby was okay.

This was John the father feeling their child for the first time.

"I don't want to give it to them," Sherlock whispered, as he placed a hand upon John's. "But I can't have it alone. And you don't love me any more."

John blinked and endless tears rolled down his cheeks. " _You_ said you didn't love me any more."

* * *

He still didn't know why he went to the hospital alone. It was in the middle of the night when he knew the baby was coming. Three weeks before the scheduled date. It was cold. He was only wearing his pyjamas, his slippers, and his coat when he hailed a cab and went to the hospital. On his own. He didn't even have a blanket for his child.

Nothing.

He never bought a thing because he knew he was not keeping it.

But now...

John finally arrived. He was also wearing his pyjamas. He was red. He said he almost ran all the way to the hospital, then he knew he could catch a cold, and it's a lot not good to have a cold and a baby around. He also realised they had nothing for their child, but nothing else matters. We have each other, said John.

And then, the doctor realised Sherlock never said whether he was keeping the baby or not. But the moment he saw him on the bed, looking so fragile, so vulnerable, so incredibly in pain, and with tears in his eyes, he knew it was Sherlock's body. It was his choice. John himself had given Sherlock no option the moment he told him he was pregnant. He still cursed himself for being such a heartless bastard.

"I want it, John."

"Are you sure?"

The detective nodded. "I didn't think of names."

"What did the doctors say?"

"They have to wait. The baby needs to move to a birth position."

John planted a kiss on his lips, and smiled at him. "I'm sure this baby is as stubborn as you are. We'll be here for hours. Plenty of time to think about names."

"I'm in pain, John."

"It's normal."

"Is it?"

The doctor nodded. "And he'll moving a lot."

"He hasn't." Sherlock said, his voice was cracking.

"Sure?" John smiled and placed a hand on Sherlock's belly. "For how long have you been here?"

"An hour."

"Has he kicked ever since?"

"No."

"But did he do it before -"

"Before I came here, yes. I knew he was coming for the way he kicked."

John knew what was going on, but somehow, he didn't want to believe it. He neither wanted Sherlock to know it. Surely he was wrong. Yes, he was probably wrong. Maybe it was a false alarm and Sherlock thought the baby was coming, but no. Maybe the baby was just kicking.

"I think we should call a doctor."

"John?" Sherlock almost jumped out of the bed when he felt a sharp pain across his lower abdomen. "Jo-John? What is it?"

He has told many parents this. He was a trained doctor. He knew how to deal with this. But not when the baby in danger is yours.

That was not their end.

This was just the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

If you asked their closest friends and acquaintances, they would tell you they had no idea Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were together. Mrs Hudson, their landlady, and the only one who witnessed their everyday lives, never noticed the change between them. Love bites, as passionate nights, went unnoticed. The moment she found out Sherlock was pregnant, she had no doubt it was John's baby. But it was in the moments between cooking Sherlock's meals and ironing his shirts that she wondered why she never heard a sound, why she never walked on them, why she had been so blind.

Not even themselves knew what they were. Nothing actually changed the moment they kissed, caressed, touched, and shared a bed. The detective kept on working, occasionally sulked, barely ate unless asked to, played the violin, and sometimes spent days without speaking at all. The doctor kept on writing on his blog, doing the shopping, occasionally went to the nearest pub to have some beers with his old friends from the army, made tea for Sherlock, and watched what Sherlock liked to call 'crap telly'.

The night Sherlock almost got himself stabbed after running after a serial killer, John was so angry that the only thing Sherlock could think of was kissing him as hard and feverishly as possible in order to do two things: shut him up, and finally tell him how much aroused he was. Angry John, with all that yelling, and all that 'you could've got hurt' had always aroused the detective. The thing was that he had always been able to control himself.

Until that night.

Far from punching him, or rejecting him, John kissed him back and both men were undressed in a matter of seconds. While being kissed and touched in the most intimate place of his body, Sherlock calculated where could be the best place to have sex. The floor, as the sofa, seemed uncomfortable. Plus, he ought to think of John and his shoulder.

"My room."

It was on his own bed where John explored his body, caressed his skin and kissed his lips. It was there were John sunk into him, and it was in that room where Sherlock became incapable of deducing a thing about his flatmate, friend, and now lover. The way John looked at him, how he touched him, how he kissed him... Sherlock knew there were clues. There he could find more information about John, about John his blogger and now his lover.

But he couldn't. He tried to focus, but every time he tried, waves of pleasure filled him. Those feelings and sensations he had been repressing were back, and oh, he missed it. It was when both had climaxed and when John was not behind him, but next to him, that Sherlock could read something. Dilated pupils, elevated pulse, he had seen those things before. Those things had revealed Irene Adler was in love with him. Could John be in love with him?

Was he even in love with John?

"Well."

"That was..."

" _Amazing_." John completed, and smiled to himself. "Shit"

Sherlock immediately knew what the doctor meant. "I'm clean, so are you I believe."

"Yes, but -"

"Good night, John."

And just like that, Sherlock grabbed his sheet, covered his nudity, and turned to face away from the doctor. As soon as he closed his eyes, he felt the consequences of their actions and soon he felt exhausted. He did not expect John to cling to him, place an arm around his waist, and finally press a kiss to the back of his neck.

For three months, Sherlock never tried to talk about it. John was aware of how much Sherlock disliked talking about feelings, let alone his. So, as much as he would have liked to discuss it, and possibly sort out what they were actually doing, he shut up. So did Sherlock who, the moment he sensed and saw the signs of the question on John's face, immediately changed the subject, or simply stopped talking for some days.

It was the detective who visited John's room. It was him who kissed John and asked him to love him. And Sherlock didn't need to say anything. The moment he stepped into John's room, made his way under the sheets, and planted a kiss on his doctor, that was all he needed to do. That was all John needed to know what Sherlock wanted.

One night, Sherlock rested his head on the doctor's chest. The whole night only offered them silence, and that was the moment when the detective felt John's heartbeats. And when John took his hand and they laced their fingers, Sherlock felt something changing within him. Something inside was different.

"I love you."

Sherlock blinked once. Twice. A third time. And John's heart beat faster, and his touch felt warmer.

Without even knowing, both had joined their paths forever. In the years to come, both would reflect on this moment, and both would agree that was the night Hamish was conceived. That night when both had dinner out, at Angelo's, John asked for a candle, and when Sherlock's eyes met his, the doctor admitted that it was 'more romantic'. Also, they shared a piece of cake, both walked back to Baker St without holding hands, but they kissed goodnight in the kitchen, and unexpectedly Sherlock visited John's room. The doctor reminded him they had ran out of condoms.

"It's okay."

In the years to come, John would admit he was worried. But then, he did not regret it. Neither Sherlock. Despite their grief and pain, both would never regret that night when they were pretty much lazy to get condoms and conceived their first child.

* * *

Now with a baby in his arms, John can't help but reflect on the beginning of their relationship. Nothing was ever normal between them. Nothing is still, and nothing probably will in the that is what life is about: not knowing what it has got in store for you. Some things are meant to be, he knows that. Sometimes we have to lost things and people we hold dear so we can understand what we have.

John had experienced this countless times. Unexpected things in his life had given him happiness and sadness. He lost a career as a surgeon. He lost his sister. He lost some of the best friends he had in the army. He lost a child. He almost lost Sherlock.

That night when he saw Sherlock almost getting himself stabbed he wanted to grab him by the collar of his stupid coat, slam him against the nearest wall and punch him. In the face. Just once, so he would understand how stupid it was. How could he ran after a serial killer, not call the police, withhold evidence, and then forget the man was armed?

Sherlock was not an amateur. He had fought Moriarty. He died and came back. John could not understand how he made these mistakes. Because these were mistakes. And so once they were in Baker St and once John made himself sure again that Mrs Hudson had definitely left to her sister's, he shouted and said 'you could've got hurt!'.

And the next thing he knew, he was being pressed against the wall and Sherlock was attacking his mouth. Soon his long hands were clumsily trying to unbutton his shirt, unbuckle his belt, and touching the most intimate part of his body. And god, it felt so good. The man he lived with, admired, and fantasised with more than once was kissing him hungrily, undressing him, and touching him.

"My room."

That was all John needed to know. Sherlock wasn't the one leading him. It was him. He was the one who pushed Sherlock against the bed, prepared him, and finally sunk into him. He was still angry, he admitted that. But how could he possibly contain himself when the man before him as nothing else but beauty personified? And he was such a good lover. All those ideas John had about Sherlock did not exist any more. When John looked down and saw the detective sucking him, he soon remembered all the occasions Sherlock seemed alarmed by sex and physical contact.

Sherlock was by no means a little virgin.

"Well."

"That was..."

" _Amazing._ " John completed, and smiled to himself. "Shit"

"I'm clean, so are you I believe."

"Yes, but -"

"Good night, John."

For three months, Sherlock avoided talking about it. John was aware of how much Sherlock disliked talking about feelings, let alone his. So, as much as he would have liked to discuss it, and possibly sort out what they were actually doing, he shut up. So did Sherlock. And John tried. He tried. On Sundays, when Sherlock was not working, and when it was John's day off, the day he was allowed to watch 'crap telly', he chose romantic films. Sherlock sometimes sat next to him and even watched. Occasionally, he made comments, said the plot was predictable, and finally retired to his room.

It wasn't John who pushed for it, but Sherlock. It was the detective who visited John's room. It was him who kissed John and asked him to love him. And Sherlock didn't need to say anything. The moment he stepped into John's room, made his way under the sheets, he planted a kiss on his doctor, and that was all he needed to do. That was all John needed to know what Sherlock wanted.

One night, John thought Sherlock was going to leave his room when he cleaned himself and lay next to him. The detective, unexpectedly, rested his head on the John's chest. John could only hear Sherlock's soft breathing on his chest. Without even asking, the doctor took Sherlock's hand and laced his fingers with his.

Something was different. Something was changing between them.

"I love you."

John didn't think of it. He just said it. And he had no idea that the very same night he said 'I love you' for the first time, was also the night when they conceived their first child.

Their Hamish.

They had had a nice dinner, walked back together to Baker St, kissed goodnight, and then made love. Both were too lazy to get condoms. Both trusted nothing could happen.

But that night, without even knowing, they had joined their paths forever. It was not their beginning. Because their relationship had never been normal. Their real beginning was going to take place in almost thirty-five weeks, one cold night, in a hospital. Just like the night he said 'I love you', John would take Sherlock's hand and tell him their baby was dead.


	3. Chapter 3

How do you give yourself in to the one sentiment you have always believed to be a chemical defect? The nights John slept next to him on his bed, Sherlock touched his own wrists, feeling his elevated pulse. There was no need for him to reach a mirror and look at his already dilated pupils. The detective was completely aware of the chemical processes taking place inside him, though he often wondered, while John slept next to him, if those signs that spoke volumes about his feelings, were also obvious to John.

The night their child was conceived, Sherlock clung to John afterwards. While the doctor cuddled the detective as if he were a small child, Sherlock told him real tales about his childhood. It was revealed to John the Holmes brothers had been very close in the past, but the bond Sherlock and Mycroft once had was severed the moment the older Holmes left home to university. His tale continued, and John learnt Sherlock's mother was an accomplished mathematician and his father a published author and historian.

It was the way John's fingers caressed the back of his neck, and even played with his black curls. For hours Sherlock opened up to John and told him everything about his past. When the doctor kissed his lips and told him everything was going to be fine, realization hit him like a bullet. He had never told anyone such things. There were things he said that could have been mistaken as just comments, little, meaningless things. But to Sherlock they meant everything.

In the months to come, in his nights of solitude in the flat, when there was no one to talk to but his growing belly, Sherlock would reflect on this night and realise John was the only person in the world who truly knew his heart. And the detective will also reflect on how the same night they conceived a child, Sherlock decided to give himself to that one feeling he had always regarded as a chemical defect: Love.

* * *

"What do you mean?"

"You heard me."

"You're..." John swallowed the remains of those hideous chocolate biscuits he liked. "You're pregnant?"

A number of feelings and sensations took over Sherlock: he felt his own hands trembling, suddenly his throat was dry and his legs were shaking. He was in the kitchen, working with his microscope, looking at nothing else but his own blood sample and checking for the millionth time his condition.

Sherlock really wished they had a mirror in the kitchen. It would probably help him to know if his face was red or not, now that John's blue eyes were uncomfortably fixed on him. It was frightening him. He had rehearsed this conversation for about a month. Every time he was alone in the flat, he would lock himself in the bathroom, imagine that particular tile was John's face, and he would simply say it.

Now, thirty-two days later, he was actually facing John and telling him he was expecting his child.

"Yes."

"How…" John ran a hand over his face. "How is that even _possible_?"

"Do I need to tell you how human beings reproduce to perpetuate –"

"I _know_ how babies are made." John said, slightly exasperated. "I mean… we were always careful."

"Not that night."

John knew there was no need in keep on asking for something he already knew. Actually, both knew their child, that child that was growing inside Sherlock, was conceived the night they have solved one of the most intriguing cases they have recently dealt with, Sherlock almost got himself stabbed, both went back Baker Street running, their adrenaline level was as high as a kite, had sex, and were pretty much lazy to go and get condoms.

The detective was determined not to let John Watson know he was nervous. He knew that it was a matter of time. In a couple of minutes or so, John the soon-to-be-father would be touching his still flat stomach and ask him how far along he is. John the doctor would go straight to the shops and buy vegetables, fruits, healthy food for him and the child he was growing inside. Their child. And John the lover would kiss him and tell him how much he loved him.

But there were miscalculations that not even the greatest Sherlock Holmes could have predicted.

"But you're getting rid of it."

It was not a question, but an assertion.

Sherlock knew he must have missed it. His heart would not stop beating faster and faster and his brain could not process what John just said. "What?"

Confirmation. He needed it. Suddenly, he could hear all his brain cells telling him they could not process what John Watson just said. Certainly, as the man of science he was, Sherlock did not believe in fantasies. Everything was calculated. He could even tell he night they conceived the child he had inside.

But John Watson didn't ask. He was making an assertion.

"You're getting rid of it, I suppose." John drank another long sip of his stupid tea. "It was an accident. I mean, neither of us –"

"Neither of us want this child." Sherlock completed John's sentence. For two seconds, his heart ached. Now his hands stopped trembling, his throat was not dry and sore anymore, and his legs were firmly pressed against the cold floor.

John nodded.

Sherlock shrugged.

The detective's eyes went back to his microscope, where he was analysing his own blood, and where he'd hoped he could show John the ultimate proof of his state.

"I'm getting rid of it."

It was an assertion, but he meant it to be a question.

His peripheral view confirmed John resumed his activities and his eyes were again on the telly and the football match being broadcasted. Sherlock had imagined multiple scenarios but not this one. There's always something. He should have known better. Their status had limits, and becoming John Watson's lover certainly did not allow for a third party. Children were not welcomed.

* * *

But for the light in the kitchen, the entire flat was dark. It was quite too. It was midnight when Sherlock realised he had no more eyeballs to burn, and that John had gone to bed hours ago. He kicked his slippers and walked barefoot to the windows. There, he watched some people passing by and heard the familiar sounds of the busy streets of London. And his heart. For no apparent reason, his heart seemed to beat louder.

Maybe it was because it ached.


End file.
